45:03.60

By now you must have heard that I finished my first five-mile race at St. Malachi on Saturday. The gun went off at 9:45 a.m. on the corner of West 25th and Main Ave. in Cleveland, and I crossed the finish line on Washington Ave. about 45 minutes and 3 seconds later (actually I was 17 seconds behind the gun, but you can check out the exact results).

I’m not going to lie to you: it was a great time. My step-father and I made it to St. Malachi by 9:30 to pick up our chips. We stretched a bit inside; I thought long and hard about eating a free banana (but I didn’t); and then we hung out on a hill until the gun suddenly went off and we started running.

The interesting thing about the race is that it starts and ends on a hill. The unfortunate thing is that it starts downhill and it ends uphill.

Before the race began I drilled it into my head that I had to watch my pace. Anyone who knows me (or has read about me) is aware of my problem with pacing… and racing. Especially when faster people are around. So, my goal in this race was twofold: 1) finish; 2) run at a consistent pace. I managed to accomplish both.

Around 8 minutes, I rounded the first mile marker and figured I should slow myself down if I ever intended to make it up that final hill. But I definitely got ahead of myself there: when I turned the corner I smacked right into the first big hill of the race (OK, big for me; I’ve been running on the track for the past month!).

I ran in the middle of the pack, so at least half of the people around me were taking that hill and, well, the rest were being taken. It reminded me of that scene in Titanic in which the bow of the ship turns perpendicular to the water and all of the people start sliding down the deck. Granted, there was no sliding, but people were stopping, walking and dropping like flies. The peer pressure almost got to me (I thought: “oh, how nice—and easy too—would it be to take a walking break right now?”), but I continued to run.

I did, however, make a very strong mental note that I must, must, must run more hills for next time. And I might want to jam with my iPod to take the focus off my pain when possible (I didn’t listen to it during the race). Just a thought.

By the time my muscles warmed up (about mile two), the front of the pack was running back toward us on the other side of the road. These people were marked most distinctly by their good running clothes. It was easy to discern the progression of great runners to good and good runners to decent by the looks of their clothes.

The two guys at the front of the race, for instance, were wearing small running shorts and tank tops. And as more people followed, you saw the running shorts get longer, the tank tops become T-shirts. Eventually, you would get to someone like me in my long pants, double T-shirt and water-repellant pullover. In fact, as we passed the back end of the race, there were people dressed in St. Patrick’s Day costumes and fairly large headdresses. Only some of them were walkers.

I didn’t pass these people, however, until after I passed my doomed water pick-up.

It turns out that I’m not so good at drinking water on the go. Maybe I just need practice or that special talent, but I’ll definitely need to work on that as well. (Can you see Neil standing on the side of the road holding out Dixie cups of water for me? It’s like a movie montage in my forthcoming feature film Rockiette.)

After I grabbed the water and threw it in my mouth (good thing I had the water-repellant pullover!), I had the worst stitch ever. I didn’t stop, but I tried to do all of the breathing, poking and stretching exercises I normally do when I get a stitch. Nothing worked. I continued to run with it until it faded away around 500 yards from the finish. Figures.

Nevertheless, I was able to maintain my 9-minute per mile pace. The back roads of inner Cleveland were keeping me well occupied (there are some really neat modern-arch buildings back there!) until the dog came along. I’ll have to sort through the thousands of St. Malachi photos when they come out to show you a photo of the dog. That is, the dog that beat me.

In the last 1-2 miles of the race, this tall dog and his owner came strutting up the side of the pack. It almost moved me to run faster, but I was determined to not let others influence my pace in this race. But I was getting outrun in a 5-mile race by a dog! I didn’t actually see him finish, but that pooch must have been throwing down some sub-8-minute miles. What could I do?

So, I let the dog pass and I tucked away my pride. But as I crossed the last grated bridge, I could hear a man with a megaphone calling out, “Only 300 yards to go. Up the hill and you’re done! Three hundred yards to beer!” Or at least that’s what I thought he said. I knew, however, what lay around that corner. It was the hill.

Last year, when I was just a spectator, I remember watching people trudge up that hill in all of their huffing and wheezing. I thought to myself, “Wow, that must suck to have to run up this hill after you’ve already done the five miles.” And, you know, it wasn’t pretty.

But it wasn’t really that bad after all. Although I had my own strength and will power working for me, two of my biggest motivators for running were my mom and Neil: they had been standing out in the drizzle (after going to the West Side Market, of course) at the finish for most of the race. I couldn’t possible make them stick it out just to see my walk up a hill.

And when I passed them, they made it worth it. Neil threw his arms in the air, one with a brown paper bag in it, and said, “I’ve got biscuits for you, baby! Whew!” Since we all know how much I love my Russian tea biscuits, I turned on the jets for the last 100 yards and sprinted to the finish.

Not only did I get my biscuits (and bratwurst and cinnamon-sugar crepe) from the market, but I gave the incredible dog a high-five too.

Thanks again to everyone for your support. And big props to the Salty One for her stellar racing (and great racing story). It’s a great feeling to have this first race under my belt, as well as a better understanding of how a race works… and how I work in one too.

First Race: St. Malachi on March 10

Two miles or five miles? That is the question.

While I didn’t run on Saturday as planned, I did some strength training in the morning and decided on my first road race of the season: St. Malachi on Saturday, March 10 in Cleveland. My step-father ran this race last year and I remember standing on the sidelines feeling left out and lazy.

The race is on the very near west side of Cleveland, at the end of Veterans’ Memorial Bridge. It may be or not quite be Ohio City. But it is down the street from the West Side Market.

Last year we dropped my step-father off at the start, grabbed some bratwurst and met him at the sideline. I think we’ll just have to make it an annual thing — except, of course, we’ll get the bratwurst after I finish the race.

But the race is offered in two flavors: two miles and five miles. I was kinda hoping for something right down the middle, like a 5K, but no-o! Registration is due in early March, so I’ll have to make this decision this week.

March 10 is only two weeks away, so I really need to hop to it!

This race, however, looks like a killer to me: last year the last quarter-mile or so was up a fairly steep run-up-from-the-river hill. I remember the first guy coming in (had to be around 25 minutes or so — geez!) and everyone just standing around staring at him huffing up that hill. It seemed so anticlimactic. I can only imagine what he was feeling.

Until Neil jumped in the street and started whooping it up for this guy. The crowd started cheering and by the time the runner approached the finish line the noise had hit a pretty decent rumble. But it died quickly. So, as the next runner approached the final hill, Neil jumped in the street again and yelled, “Second place is sexy! Woohoo!” and got the crowd going again. The steady stream of runners followed and everyone received a warm welcome. And as my step-father passed I’m certain he wished he were someone else (we’re a rather embarrassing bunch of cheerer-oners).

Thankfully, I’ll have people like Neil and my mom on the sidelines to make me wish I were someone else when I approach the finish to my first race.

Thinking about this race makes me want to head out still this evening — even if it is cold and dark. That’s why we have sidewalks!